“Then she has told you?”
“She has not told me. Women are either angels or fiends. This harmless little angel has been driven out of her Paradise in the hope that her butterfly wings may be soiled by the rain and mud of Manhattan. Who sent you to her?”
“Senator Meiklejohn,” said Mrs. Carshaw defiantly.
“What, that smug Pharisee! What was his excuse?”
“He said you were the talk of the clubs—that Helen Tower—”
“She, too! Thank you. I see the drift of things now. It was heartless of you, mother. Did not Winifred’s angel face, twisted into misery by your lies, cause you one pang of remorse?”
Mrs. Carshaw rose unsteadily. Her face was ghastly in its whiteness.
“Rex, spare me, for Heaven’s sake!” she faltered. “I did it for the best. I have suffered more than you know.”
“I am glad to hear it. You have a good nature in its depths, but the canker of society has almost destroyed it. That is why you and I are about to talk business.”
“I am feeling faint. Let matters rest a few hours.”